“I’m done,” soliloquized he; “pardenership between me and good-nature is

this day dissolved, and all persons indebted will please to settle with

the undersigned, who alone is authorized. Yes, there’s a good many

indebted, and it’s high time to dissolve, when your pardener has sold

all the goods and spent all the money. Once I had a little shop—ah!

wasn’t it nice?—plenty of goods and plenty of business. But then comes

one troop of fellows, and they wanted tick—I’m so good-natured; then

comes another set of chaps, who didn’t let bashfulness stand in their

way a minute; they sailed a good deal nearer the wind, and wanted to

borry money—I’m so good-natured; and more asked me to go security.

These fellows were always very particular friends of mine, and got what

they asked for; but I was a very particular friend of theirs, and

couldn’t get it back. It was one of the good rules that won’t work both

ways; and I, somehow or other, was at the wrong end of it, for it

wouldn’t work my way at all. There’s few rules that will, barring

substraction, and division, and alligation, when our folks allegated

against me that I wouldn’t come to no good. All the cypherin’ I could

ever do made more come to little, and little come to less; and yet, as I

said afore, I had a good many assistants too.

“Business kept pretty fair; but I wasn’t cured. Because I was

good-natured, I had to go with ’em frolicking, tea-partying,

excursioning, and busting; and for the same reason, I was always

appinted treasurer to make the distribution when there wasn’t a cent of

surplus revenue in the treasury, but my own. It was my job to pay all

the bills. Yes, it was always ‘Salix, you know me’—‘Salix, pony up at

the bar, and lend us a levy’—‘Salix always shells out like a

gentleman.’ Oh, to be sure! and why not?—now I’m shelled out

myself—first out of my shop by old _venditioni exponas_, at the State

House—old _fiery fash’us_ to me directed. But they didn’t direct him

soon enough, for he only got the fixtures. The goods had gone out on a

bust long before I busted. Next, I was shelled out of my boarding house;

and now,” (with a lugubrious glance at his shirt and pantaloons,) “I’m

nearly shelled out of my clothes. It’s a good thing they can’t easy

shell me out of my skin, or they would, and let me catch my death of

cold. I’m a mere shell-fish—an oyster with the kivers off.

“But, it was always so—when I was a little boy, they coaxed all my

pennies out of me; coaxed me to take all the jawings, and all the

hidings, and to go first into all sorts of scrapes, and precious

scrapings they used to be. I wonder if there isn’t two kinds of

people—one kind that’s made to chaw up t’other kind, and t’other kind

that’s made to be chawed up by one kind?—cat-kind of people, and

mouse-kind of people? I guess there is. I’m very much of a mouse myself.

“What I want to know is, what’s to become of me. I’ve spent all I had in

getting my eddication. Learnin’, they say, is better than houses and

lands. I wonder if anybody will swap some house and land with me for

mine? I’d go it even and ask no boot. They should have it at prime cost;

but they won’t; and I begin to be afraid I’ll have to get married, or

’list in the marines. That’s what most people do when they’ve nothing to

do.”

* * * * *

What became of Leniter Salix immediately, is immaterial; what will

become of him eventually is clear enough. His story is one acting every

day, and, though grotesquely sketched, is an evidence of the danger of

an accommodating disposition when not regulated by prudence. The

softness of “the best-natured fellow in the world” requires a large

admixture of hardening alloy to give it the proper temper.

-----

[13] By J. C. Neal.

XX.

CHUNKEY’S FIGHT WITH THE PANTHERS.

Co Chunk! went Jem into the middle of the floor; jest at the crack off

day (Jem is a labor-savin’ man about ondressing when he goes to bed). He

commenced chunkin’ the fire, then “ah!” says he, feelin’ for the tin

cup. Presently he went to the door, and shouted to the foreman:

“Sound that horn, Hembry. Tell the niggars in the quarter to lumber the

hollar back agin to the kitchen, for a hurricane has surely broke

loose!”

Then “ah!” says he again, and in he comes.

“Chunkey!” says he.

“What’s busted, Jem?”

“North pole has busted, and no mistake. The ground is kivered with

snow.”

I sprung up, and sure enough thar was the snow, the first that ever fell

in the creek, jest follerin’ civilization. I knowed thar’d be howlin’,

smashin’ of teeth, burnin’ of brimstone, and a worryin’ of the stranger,

on the creek to-day, and so, I reckon, did the dogs, ’cause when Hembry

blowed the horn, they come a shoutin’ like so many imps. Jest imagin,

Captin, thirty full-grown dogs, a cross of the blood on the old Virginny

foxhound, keen as a bowyer, and adzactly of Jem’s opinion, signifying as

plain as they could, if huntin’s goin’ on, they’d take a chance.

Well, we splurged about till breakfast-time, gettin’ up and cleanin’

guns, and countin’ balls, and dividin’ powder.

“Bring out them bar-sassage and deer melts,” says Jem; “and then,

Chunkey, we’ll locomotion.”

His eyes all the time lookin’ like a live coal of fire, and every muscle

jumpin’ for joy.

“Look out, bar,” says he.

“Say low, and keep dark, panter,” says I.

“Deer, don’t you come nigh me,” says Jem, and then he commenced singin’:

“Oh, rain come wet me, sun come dry me,

Take care, white man, don’t come nigh me,”

and strikin’ a few flourishes of the goin’ and comin’ double shuffle.

“Hurrah for Sky Lake,” says I.

“Hurrah for the Forkin’ Cypress drive,” says Jem, takin’ a drink, and

cuttin’ a few pigeon-wings with his left leg. “Now mind, Chunkey, no

deer or wild turkey, no hogs or cub—nothin’ but bar or panter.”

“Agreed,” says I, and then we budged.

Captin, you’ve hearn Jem say, he’s hard of hearin’? Well, he is

sometimes, ’specially when he don’t want to hear; but that mornin’ he

was wide awake all over, and could have hearn an old he bar grunt in a

thunder-storm.

“I’ll carry the horn, Chunkey. If you blow, I can’t hear you; and when I

want you, I’ll blow, and you can.”

I didn’t ’spect anything then, but you’ll see.

Well, we had our big guns, them the govenor gin us; they throw twelve to

the pound, and war made by that man what lives in Louisville; what’s his

name?

He promised to send me a deer-gun gratis for two young panters, but he

ain’t done it.

Jem’s gun war in bar order that mornin’, and if you’d jest say varment

above your breath, click it would go, cockin’ itself.

Lots of deer war ’tinually passin’; that day some on ’em stood feedin’

jist as careless as a loafer with a full belly; they kno’ed they war

safe. The day was mighty clear and yaller; it warn’t very cold, but

still the snow diddent melt, but floated sorter like turkey-feathers in

the wind, and in the tall cane it fell round us like a fog.

When we got to the Forkin’ Cypress, Sol soon had a camp made; and I and

Jem started to look for sign.

We hadn’t been gone long, when I hearn Jem’s horn, and made to him; thar

war a sign at the foot of a tree, and thar war his track in the snow.

“Shall we hail him, Chunkey?”

“In course,” says I.

Well, we hollered to Sol, to let the dogs loose. Presently, I heard ’em

give some short licks, and I knowed he war up.

“Thar’s a cry for you.”

Away they go further and further, presently you can jest hear ’em, and

then they are clean gone. I hearn Jem shoutin’ awhile, and then his

mouth is lost too. I started on, spectin’ to meet ’em comin’ back, and

in about an hour I hearn Jem’s voice:

“Who-whoop!”

“Ah, bar!” says I, “whar’s your friends?”

I soon hearn Jem agin, and presently I hearn the dogs, like the ringin’

of a cow-bell, a long way off. They come up the ridge, and then bore off

to the thick cane on my right. Then they hushed awhile, and I knoed

they’s a fightin’.

Look out, dogs; thar, they are gwyine again—no, here they comes! Lay

low, and keep dark.

I put down another ball, and stood for him. I heard the cane crackin’,

and cocked my gun. Here he comes—here he is. I hear him snortin’, wake

snakes. Ain’t that lumberin’? Thar, they’ve got him again, and now the

fur flies. I crawled thro’ the cane, trying to get a shot afore the dogs

seen me. Thar they is, but which is he?

Bang! whiff, whiff, said the bar, and with that every dog jumped him.

The canes a crackin’, and the dogs a hollerin’. I jerked my bowyer and

plunged in, and thar they war hung togather like a swarm of bees. I felt

the har risin’ on my head, and the blood ticklin’ the end of my fingers.

I crept up behind him and he war done fightin’. He haddent got a hundred

yards from the place whar I’d shot him. It war a death shot, and blinded

him, and thar side of him lay “Singer” and “Constitutional,” two of the

best dogs in Jem’s pack. I giv a shout, and Jem answered. Presently I

hearn him cummin’, blowin’ like a steam-boat, and mad as anything; he

always gits mad when he’s tired, and when he seen them dead dogs, he

commenced breathin’ mighty hard, and the veins in his neck was as big as

fingers; we warn’t more than a quarter and a half from the camp, whar we

soon got, both mighty hungry and tired. Sol cooked the liver jest to the

right pint, and we spent the balance of the evenin’ in singin’,

braggin’, and eatin’ spar-ribs roasted brown, till we went to sleep.

Next mornin’ when we waked, it was sorter cloudy and warm too. The wind

war blowin’ mightily.

“Now, Chunkey, let’s have a panter to-day, _or nothin’_.”

“All _sot_,” says I.

Well, arter breakfast Jem says, “Chunkey, you must take the right side

the Lake, and I’ll take the ’yether, till we meet—and, Chunkey, you

must _rush_; it ain’t more nor eight miles round, but your side _may_

seem long, as you ain’t usen to the ground. Let’s licker out of _my_

gourd, you ain’t got more nor you’ll want. Keep your eye skinned for

sign, and listen for my horn!”

“Hump yourself,” says I, and we both darted—_well_; I worked my passage

through cane, palmetto, and vines, until I war tired—I haddent hearn

Jem’s horn, and pushed on the harder to meet him; every once and a while

I’d think _hears the turn of the Lake_, but when I’d git to the place,

_thar it was_ stretchin’ out as big as ever. Once I thought I hearn

Jem’s horn, but couldent quite make it out. I kept movin’; hours passed

and no Jem or end of the Lake; I’d seen lots of bar and panter sign,

lots of deer, and more swan, wild-goose, and duck, than you ever will

see; but I paid no attention to ’em, as I ’spected I’d taken some wrong

arm of the Lake and war lost. It war gettin’ towards night, and I

’spected I’d have to sleep by myself, but you know I diddent mind that,

as I war used to it. But it war the first time in my life that I’d bin

lost, and that _did_ pester me mightily. Well, Sir, after studyin’

awhile, I thought I’d better put back towards the camp, mighty tired and

discouraged. I then throw’d my gourd round to take a drop of liker, and

it were _filled with water_! fact!—Thinks I, Chunkey, you must have

been _mighty_ drunk last night; that made me sorter low-spirited like a

a ’oman, and my heart war weak as water. It had commenced gittin’ sorter

dark; the wind were blowin’ and groanin’ through the trees and rivers,

and the black clouds were flyin’, and I war goin’ along sorter oneasy

and cross-grained, when _a panter yelled out, close to me_! I turned

with my gun cocked, but couldent see it; presently I hearn it again, and

out it come, and then another! “Is that you?” said I, takin’ a crack and

missin’ to a sartainty; and away they darted through the cane. I drap’d

my gun to load, and by the great Jackson, there warn’t a full load of

powder in my gourd!—I loaded _mighty_ carefully, and started on to pick

out some holler tree to sleep in. Every once and awhile I’d git a

glimpse of the panters on my trail. “Panters,” says I, “I’ll make a

child’s bargain with you; if you will let _me_ alone, _you_ may

_golong_;—and if you don’t, here’s a ball into the head of one of

ye’er, and this knife!”—_hush_, if my knife warn’t gone, I wish I may

never taste bar’s meat? I raised my arm, trimblin’ like a leaf, and says

I, “Jem!—_I’ll have your melt!_” Well, I _war_ in trouble sure!—I

thought I war on the _Tchule a Leta Lake_, and _witched_.

Well I did! Oh, you may larph, but jist imagin’ _yourself_ lost in the

cane on Sky Lake, (the cane on Sky Lake _is some_—thirty miles long,

from one to three miles wide, thick as the har on a dog’s back, and

about thirty feet high!) out of licker, out of powder, your knife gone,

the ground kivered with snow, you very hungry and tired, _and two

panters follerin’ your trail_, and you’d think you was bewitched too!

Well, here they come, never lettin’ on, but makin’ arrangements to have

my skalp that night; I never lettin’ on, but detarmin’d they shouldent.

The har had been standin’ on my head for more nor an hour, and the sweat

were gist _rollin’_ off me, and that satisfied me a fight war a brewin’

atween me and the panters! I stopped two or three times, thinkin’ they’s

gone, but presently here they’d come, creepin’ along through the cane,

and soon as they’d see me they stop, lay down, roll over and twirl their

tails about like kittens playin’; I’d then shout, shake the cane, and

away they’d go. Oh, they thought they had me! _In course they did_, and

I detarmined with myself, if they _did let me go_, if they diddent

attack an onarmed man, alone and lost, without licker, dogs, powder or

knife, that the very fust time I got a panter up a tree, with my whole

pack at the root, my licker gourd full, and I half full, my

twelve-to-the-pound-yager loaded, and my knife in shavin’ order, I’d let

_him_ go! Yes, _’tisn’t Chantrey if I diddent_!

But what did _they_ care? They’d no more feelin’ than a pine-stump! I

know’d it woulddent do to risk a fight in the cane, and pushed on to

find an open place whar I could make sure of my one load, and rely on my

gun barrel arter. I soon found a place whar the cane drifted, and _thar_

I determined to stand and fight it out! Presently here they come; and if

a stranger had seen ’em, he’d a thought they were playin’! They’d jump

and squat, and bend their backs, lay down and roll, and grin like

puppys;—_they kept gittin’ nearer and nearer_, and it wer gettin’ dark,

and I know’d I must let drive at the old _he_, ’afore it got so dark I

coulddent see my sights; so I jist dropped on one knee to make sure, and

when I raised my gun, I were all in a trimble! I know’d _that_ woulddent

do, and _ris_!

“You are witched, Chunkey, sure and sartin’,” said I. Arter bracin’

myself, I raised up agin and _fired_! One on ’em sprung into the air and

gin a yell, and the other bounded towards me like a streak! Lightin’

close to me, it squatted to the ground and commenced creepin’ towards

me—its years laid back, its eyes turnin’ green, and sorter swimmin’

round like, and the end of its tail twistin’ like a snake. I felt light

as a cork, and strong as a buffalo. I seen her commence slippin’ her

legs under her, and knew she were gwine to spring. I throw’d back my gun

to gin it to her, as she come; the lick I aimed at her head struck

across the shoulders and back without doing any harm, _and she had

me_!—Rip, rip, rip—and ’way went my blanket, coat, and britches. She

sunk her teeth into my shoulder, her green eyes were close to mine, and

the froth from her mouth were flyin’ in my face!! _Moses!_ how fast she

_did_ fight! I felt the warm blood runnin’ down my side—I seen she were

arter _my_ throat! and with that I grabbed _hern_, and commenced pourin’

it into her side with my fist, like cats-a-fightin!—Rip, rip, she’d

take me,—diff, slam, bang, I’d gin it to her—she fightin’ for her

_supper_, I fightin’ for my _life_! Why, in course it war an onequal

fight, but she ris it! Well, we had it round and round, sometimes one,

and then yother on top, she a growlin’ and I a gruntin’! We had both

commenced gittin’ mighty tired, and presently she made a spring, _tryin’

to git away_! Arter _that_ thar wan’t no mortal chance for her! Cause

why, she were whipped! I’d sorter been thinkin’ about sayin’

“Now I lay me down to sleep,”

but I know’d if I commenced it would put her in heart, and she’d riddle

me in a minit, and when _she_ hollered _nuff_, I were glad to my shoe

soles, and had sich confidence in whippin’ the fight, that _I offered

two to one on Chunkey_, but no takers!

“Oh, ho!” says I, a hittin’ her a lick every time I spoke, “you are

willin’ to quit even and divide stakes, are you?” and then round and

round we went agin! You could have hearn us blow a quarter, but

presently she made a _big struggle_ and broke my hold! I fell one way,

and she the other! She darted into the cane, and that’s the last time I

ever hearn of _that_ panter!!!

When I sorter come to myself, I war struttin’ and _thunderin’_ like a

big he-gobler, and then I commenced examinin’ to see what harm she’d

done me; I war bit powerful bad in the shoulder and arm—_jist look at

them scars!_—and I were cut into solid whip-strings; but when I found

thar warn’t no danger of its _killin’_ me, I set in to braggin’. “Oh,

you ain’t dead yet, Chunkey!” says I, “if you are sorter wusted, and

have whipped a panter in a fair fight, and _no_ gougin’;” and then I

_cock a doodle dood_ a spell, for joy!

When I looked round, _thar_ sot the old he, a lickin’ the blood from his

breast! I’d shot him right through the breast, but sorter

slantindickler, breakin’ his shoulder blade into a perfect smash. I

walked up to him:

“Howdy, panter? how do you do? how _is_ missis panter, and the little

panters? how is your consarns in gineral? Did you ever hearn tell of the

man they calls ‘Chunkey?’ born in Kaintuck and raised in Mississippi?

death on a bar, and _smartly_ in a panter fight? If you diddent, look,

for _I’m he_! I kills bars, whips panters in a fair fight; I walks the

water, I out-bellars the thunder, and when I gets hot, the Mississippi

hides itself! I—I—Oh, you thought you _had_ me, did you?—_drot you!_

But _you_ are a gone sucker, now. I’ll have your melt, if I never gits

home, so—”

“Look out, Capting! here’s the place! make the skift fast to that Cyprus

log. Take care them oars, Abe! Spring out and oncupple the dogs, and

take car they don’t knock them guns overboard. Now, Capting, we will

have a deer movin’ afore you can say—Chunkey.”

XXI.

A BULLY BOAT, AND A BRAG CAPTAIN.

A STORY OF STEAM-BOAT LIFE ON THE MISSISSIPPI.

Does any one remember the ‘Caravan?’ She was what would now be

considered a slow boat; _then_ (1827) she was regularly advertised as

the “fast-running,” &c. Her regular trips from New Orleans to Natchez

were usually made in from six to eight days; a trip made by her in five

days was considered remarkable. A voyage from New Orleans to Vicksburg

and back, including stoppages, generally entitled the officers and crew

to a month’s wages. Whether the ‘Caravan’ ever achieved the feat of a

voyage to the Falls (Louisville), I have never learned; if she did, she

must have “had a time of it!”

It was my fate to take passage in this boat. The captain was a

good-natured, easy-going man, careful of the comfort of his passengers,

and exceedingly fond of the _game of brag_. We had been out a little

more than five days, and we were in hopes of seeing the bluffs of

Natchez on the next day. Our wood was getting low, and night coming on.

The pilot on duty _above_ (the other pilot held three aces at the time,

and was just calling out the captain, who “went it strong” on three

kings) sent down word that the mate had reported the stock of wood

reduced to half a cord. The worthy captain excused himself to the pilot,

whose watch was _below_, and the two passengers who made up the party,

and hurried to the deck, where he soon discovered, by the landmarks,

that we were about half a mile from a wood-yard, which he said was

situated “right round yonder point.”

“But,” muttered the captain, “I don’t much like to take wood of the

yellow-faced old scoundrel who owns it; he always charges a quarter of a

dollar more than any one else; however, there’s no other chance.”

The boat was pushed to her utmost, and, in a little less than an hour,

when our fuel was about giving out, we made the point, and our cables

were out and fastened to trees, alongside of a good-sized wood-pile.

“Hollo, Colonel! how d’ye sell your wood _this_ time?”

A yellow-faced old gentleman, with a two-weeks’ beard, strings over his

shoulders holding up to his arm-pits a pair of copperas-coloured,

linsey-woolsey pants, the legs of which reached a very little below the

knee, shoes without stockings, a faded, broad-brimmed hat, which had

once been black, and a pipe in his mouth, casting a glance at the empty

guards of our boat, and uttering a grunt as she rose from fastening our

“spring-line,” answered:

“Why, Capting, we must charge you _three and a quarter_ THIS _time_.”

“The d——l!” replied the Captain, (captains did swear a little in those

days); “what’s the odd _quarter_ for, I should like to know? You only

charged me _three_ as I went down.”

“Why, Capting,” drawled out the wood-merchant, with a sort of leer on

his yellow countenance, which clearly indicated that his wood was as

good as sold, “wood’s riz since you went down two weeks ago; besides you

are awar’ that you very seldom stop going _down_; when you’re going

_up_, you’re sometimes obleeged to give me a call, becase the current’s

against you, and there’s no other wood-yard for nine miles ahead; and if

you happen to be nearly out of fooel, why—”

“Well, well,” interrupted the Captain, “we’ll take a few cords, under

the circumstances,” and he returned to his game of brag.

In about half an hour, we felt the ‘Caravan’ commence paddling again.

Supper was over, and I retired to my upper berth, situated alongside,

and overlooking the brag-table, where the Captain was deeply engaged,

having now the _other_ pilot as his principal opponent. We jogged on

quietly, and seemed to be going at a good rate.

“How does the wood burn?” inquired the Captain of the mate, who was

looking on at the game.

“’Tisn’t of much account, I reckon,” answered the mate; “it’s

cotton-wood, and most of it green at that—”

“Well, Thompson—(three aces again, stranger. I’ll take that X and the

small change, if you please—it’s your deal)—Thompson, I say, we’d

better take three or four cords at the next wood-yard; it can’t be more

than six miles from here; (two aces and a bragger, with the ace! hand

over those Vs.)”

The game went on, and the paddles kept moving. At eleven o’clock it was

reported to the Captain that we were nearing the wood-yard, the light

being distinctly seen by the pilot on duty.

“Head her in shore, then, and take in six cords, if it’s good. See to

it, Thompson; I can’t very well leave the game now; it’s getting right

warm! This pilot’s beating us all to smash.”

The wooding completed, we paddled on again. The Captain seemed somewhat

vexed when the mate informed him that the price was the same as at the

last wood-yard, _three and a quarter_; but soon again became interested

in the game.

From my upper berth (there was no state-rooms _then_) I could observe

the movements of the players. All the contention appeared to be between

the captain and the pilots, (the latter personages took it turn and turn

about, steering and playing brag), one of them almost invariably

winning, while the two passengers merely went through the ceremony of

dealing, cutting, and paying up their “antics.” They were anxious to

_learn the game_—and they did learn it! Once in a while, indeed, seeing

they had two aces and a bragger, they would venture a bet of five or ten

dollars; but they were always compelled to back out before the

tremendous bragging of the captain or pilot; or if they _did_ venture to

“call out” on “two bullits and a bragger,” they had the mortification to

find one of the officers had the same kind of a hand, and were _more

venerable_! Still, with all these disadvantages, they continued

playing—they wanted to learn the game.

At two o’clock, the captain asked the mate how we were getting on.

“Oh, pretty glibly, Sir!” replied the mate; “we can scarcely tell what

headway we _are_ making, for we are obliged to keep the middle of the

river, and there is the shadow of a fog rising. This wood seems rather

better than that we took in at old yellow-face’s, but we’re nearly out

again, and must be looking for more. I saw a light just ahead on the

right—shall we hail?”

“Yes, yes,” replied the Captain; “ring the bell, and ask ’em what’s the

price of wood up here. I’ve got you again; here’s double kings.”

I heard the bell and the pilot’s hail:

“What’s _your_ price for wood?”

A youthful voice on the shore answered:

“Three _and_ a quarter!”

“Hollo!” ejaculated the captain, who had just lost the price of two

cords to the pilot, the strangers suffering _some_ at the same time,

“three and a quarter again! Are we _never_ to get to a cheaper country?

Deal, Sir, if you please—better luck next time.”

The other pilot’s voice was again heard on deck:

“How much _have_ you?”

“Only about ten cords, Sir,” was the reply of the youthful salesman.

The Captain here told Thompson to take six cords, which would last till

daylight, and again turned his attention to the game.

The pilots here changed places. _When did they sleep?_ Wood taken in,

the ‘Caravan’ again took her place in the middle of the stream, paddling

on as usual. Day at length dawned, the brag-party broke up, and

settlements were being made, during which operation the Captain’s

bragging propensities were exercised in cracking up the speed of his

boat, which, by his reckoning, must have made at least sixty miles, and

would have made many more if he could have procured good wood. It

appears the two passengers, in their first lesson, had incidentally lost

one hundred and twenty dollars. The Captain, as he rose to see about

taking in some _good_ wood, which he felt sure of obtaining, now he had

got above the level country, winked at his opponent, the pilot, with

whom he had been on very bad terms during the progress of the game, and

said, in an under tone:

“Forty a-piece for you, and I, and James (the other pilot) is not bad

for one night.”

I had risen, and went out with the Captain, to enjoy a view of the

bluffs. There was just fog enough to prevent the vision taking in more

than sixty yards, so I was disappointed in _my_ expectation. We were

nearing the shore for the purpose of looking for wood, the banks being

invisible from the middle of the river.

“There it is!” exclaimed the Captain; “stop her!”

Ding, ding, ding! went the big bell, and the Captain hailed:

“Hollo! the wood-yard!”

“Hollo, yourself!” answered a squeaking female voice, which came from a

woman with a petticoat over her shoulders in place of a shawl.

“What’s the price of wood?”

“I think you ought to know the price by this time,” answered the old

lady in the petticoat; “it’s three and a qua-a-rter! and now you know

it.”

“Three and the d——l!” broke in the Captain; “what, have you raised on

_your_ wood too? I’ll give you three, and not a cent more.”

“Well,” replied the petticoat, “here comes the old man; _he’ll_ talk to

you.”

And, sure enough, out crept from the cottage the veritable faded hat,

copperas-coloured pants, yellow countenance, and two weeks’ beard we had

seen the night before, and the same voice we had heard regulating the

price of cotton-wood, squeaked out the following sentence, accompanied

by the same leer of the same yellow countenance:

“Why, darn it all, Capting! there is but three or four cords left, and

_since it’s you_, I don’t care if I _do_ let you have it for _three, as

you’re a good customer_!”

After a quick glance at the landmarks around, the Captain bolted, and

turned in to take some rest. The fact became apparent: the reader will

probably have discovered it some time since, _that we had been wooding

all night at the same wood-yard_!

XXII.

FYDGET FYXINGTON.[14]

The doctrine, that “all is for the best,” though cherished in the

abstract, is but little practised. The world is much more addicted to

its opposite. “All’s for the worst” is a very common motto, and under

its influence there are thousands who growl when they go to bed, and

growl still louder when they get up; they growl at their breakfast, they

growl at their dinner, they growl at their supper, and they growl

between meals. Discontent is written in every feature of their visage;

and they go on from the beginning of life until its close, always

growling, in the hope of making things better by scaring them into it

with ugly noises.

The active grumbletonians are a very different race of mortals from the

passives. The world is largely indebted to them for every comfort and

convenience with which it abounds; and they laugh at the inquiry whether

their exertions have conduced to the general happiness, holding it that

happiness consists chiefly in exertion—to which the passives demur, as

they look back with no little regret to the lazy days of pastoral life,

when Chaldean shepherds lounged upon the grass. The actives are very

much inclined to believe that whatever is, is wrong; but then they have

as an offset, the comfortable conviction that they are able to set it

right—an opinion which fire cannot melt out of them. These restless

fellows are in a vast majority; and hence it is that the surface of this

earthly sphere is such a scene of activity; hence it is that for so many

thousand years, the greater part of each generation has been unceasingly

employed in labour and bustle; rushing from place to place; hammering,

sawing, and driving; hewing down and piling up mountains; and

unappalled, meeting disease and death, both by sea and land.

The passive grumbletonian is useless to himself and to others: the

active grumbletonian is just the reverse. In general, he combines

individual advancement with public prosperity; but there are exceptions

even in that class—men, who try to take so much care of the world that

they forget themselves, and, of course, fail in their intent.

Such a man is Fydget Fyxington, an

amelioration-of-the-human-race-by-starting-from-first-principles-philosopher.

Fydget’s abstract principle, particularly in matters of government and

of morals, is doubtless a sound rule; but he looks so much at the

beginning that he rarely arrives at the end, and when he advances at

all, he marches backward, his face being directed towards the starting

place instead of the goal. By this means he may perhaps plough a

straight furrow, but instead of curving round obstructions, he is very

apt to be thrown down by them.

* * * * *

Winter ruled the hour when Fydget Fyxington was last observed to be in

circulation—winter, when men wear their hands in their pockets and

seldom straighten their backs—a season however, which, though sharp and

biting in its temper, has redeeming traits. There is something

peculiarly exhilarating in the sight of new-fallen snow. The storm which

brings it is not without a charm. The graceful eddying of the drifts

sported with by the wind, and the silent gliding of the feathery flakes,

as one by one they settle upon the earth like fairy creatures dropping

to repose, have a soothing influence not easily described, though

doubtless felt by all. But when the clouds, having performed their

office, roll away, and the brightness of the morning sun beams upon an

expanse of sparkling unsullied whiteness; when all that is common-place,

coarse, and unpleasant in aspect, is veiled for the time, and made to

wear a fresh and dazzling garb, new animation is felt by the spirit. The

young grow riotous with joy, and their merry voices ring like bells

through the clear and bracing air; while the remembrance of earlier days

gives a youthful impulse to the aged heart.

But to all this there is a sad reverse. The resolution of these

enchantments into their original elements by means of a thaw, is a

necessary, but, it must be confessed, a very doleful process, fruitful

in gloom, rheum, inflammations, and fevers—a process which gives

additional pangs to the melancholic, and causes valour’s self to droop

like unstarched muslin.

Such a time was it when Fydget was extant—a sloppy time in January. The

city, it is true, was clothed in snow, rusty and forlorn in aspect, and

weeping, as if in sorrow that its original purity had become soiled,

stained, and spotted by contact with the world. Its whiteness had in a

measure disappeared, by the pressure of human footsteps; wheels and

runners had almost incorporated it with the common earth; and, where

these had failed in effectually doing the work, remorseless distributers

of ashes, coal dust, and potato peelings, had lent their aid to give

uniformity to the dingy hue. But the snow, “weeping its spirit from its

eyes,” and its body too, was fast escaping from these multiplied

oppressions and contumelies. Large and heavy drops splashed from the

eaves; sluggish streams rolled lazily from the alleys, and the gutters

and crossings formed vast shallow lakes, variegated by glaciers and ice

islands. They who roamed abroad at this unpropitious time, could be

heard approaching by the damp sucking sound which emanated from their

boots, as they alternately pumped in and pumped out the water in their

progress, and it was thus that our hero travelled, having no caoutchouc

health-preservers to shield his pedals from unwholesome contact.

The shades of evening were beginning to thicken, when Fydget stopped

shiveringly and looked through the glass door of a fashionable

hotel—the blazing fire and the numerous lights, by the force of

contrast, made an outside seat still more uncomfortable.

The gong pealed out that tea was ready, and the lodgers rushed from the

stoves to comfort themselves with that exhilarating fluid.

“There they go on first principles,” said Fydget Fyxington with a sigh.

“Cla’ de kitchen da’,” said one of those ultra-aristocratic members of

society, a negro waiter, as he bustled past the contemplative

philosopher and entered the hotel; “you ought to be gwang home to

suppa’, ole soul, if you got some—yaugh—waugh!”

“Suppa’, you nigga’!” contemptuously responded Fydget, as the door

closed, “I wish I was gwang home to suppa’, but suppers are a sort of

thing I remember a good deal oftener than I see. Every thing is

wrong—such a wandering from first principles!—there must be enough in

this world for us all, or we wouldn’t be here; but things is fixed so

badly that I s’pose some greedy rascal gets my share of suppa’ and other

such elegant luxuries. It’s just the way of the world; there’s plenty of

shares of everything, but somehow or other there are folks that lay

their fingers on two or three shares, and sometimes more, according as

they get a chance, and the real owners, like me, may go whistle. They’ve

fixed it so that if you go back to first principles and try to bone what

belongs to you, they pack you right off to jail, ’cause you can’t prove

property. Empty stummicks and old clothes ain’t good evidence in court.

“What the deuse is to become of me! Something must—and I wish it would

be quick and hurra about it. My clothes are getting to be too much of

the summer-house order for the winter fashions. People will soon see too

much of me—not that I care much about looks myself, but boys is boys,

and all boys is sassy. Since the weather’s been chilly, when I turn the

corner to go up town, I feel as if the house had too many windows and

doors, and I’m almost blow’d out of my coat and pants. The fact is, I

don’t get enough to eat to serve for ballast.”

After a melancholy pause, Fydget, seeing the coast tolerably clear,

walked in to warm himself at the fire in the bar-room, near which he

stood with great composure, at the same time emptying several glasses of

comfortable compounds which had been left partly filled by the lodgers

when they hurried to their tea. Lighting a cigar which he found half

smoked upon the ledge of the stove, he seated himself and puffed away

much at his ease.

The inmates of the hotel began to return to the room, glancing

suspiciously at Fydget’s tattered integuments, and drawing their chairs

away from him as they sat down near the stove. Fydget looked

unconscious, emitting volumes of smoke, and knocking off the ashes with

a nonchalant and scientific air.

“Bad weather,” said Brown.

“I’ve noticed that the weather is frequently bad in winter, especially

about the middle of it, and at both ends,” added Green. “I keep a

memorandum book on the subject, and can’t be mistaken.”

“It’s raining now,” said Griffinhoff, “what’s the use of that when it’s

so wet under foot already?”

“It very frequently rains at the close of a thaw, and it’s beneficial to

the umbrella makers,” responded Green.

“Nothin’s fixed no how,” said Fydget with great energy—for he was tired

of listening.

Brown, Green, Griffinhoff, and the rest started and stared.

“Nothings fixed no how,” continued Fydget rejoicing in the fact of

having hearers; “our granddads must a been lazy rascals. Why didn’t they

roof over the side walks, and not leave everything for us to do? I ain’t

got no numbrell, and besides that, when it comes down as if raining was

no name for it, as it always does when I’m cotch’d out, numbrells is no

great shakes if you’ve got one with you, and no shakes at all if it’s at

home.”

“Who’s the indevidjual?” inquired Cameo Calliper, Esq., looking at

Fydget through a pair of lorgnettes.

Fydget returned the glance by making an opera glass with each fist, and

then continued his remarks; “It’s a pity we ain’t got feathers, so’s to

grow our own jacket and trousers, and do up the tailorin’ business, and

make our own feather beds. It would be a great savin’—every man his own

clothes, and every man his own feather bed. Now I’ve got a suggestion

about that—first principles bring us to the skin—fortify that, and the

matter’s done. How would it do to bile a big kittle full of tar, tallow,

beeswax and injen rubber, with considerable wool, and dab the whole

family once a week? The young ’uns might be soused in it every Saturday

night, and the nigger might fix the elderly folks with a whitewash

brush. Then there wouldn’t be no bother a washing your clothes or

yourself, which last is an invention of the doctor to make people sick,

because it lets in the cold in winter and the heat in summer, when

natur’ says shut up the porouses and keep ’em out. Besides, when the new

invention was tore at the knees or wore at the elbows, just tell the

nigger to put on the kittle and give you a dab, and you’re patched

slick—and so that whole mobs of people mightn’t stick together like

figs, a little sperrits of turpentine or litharage might be added to

make ’em dry like a house-a-fire.”

“If that fellow don’t go away, I’ll hurt him,” said Griffinhoff _sotto

voce_.

“Where’s a waiter?” inquired Cameo Calliper edging off in alarm.

“He’s crazy,” said Green, “I was at the hospital once, and there was a

man in the place who——”

“’Twould be nice for sojers,” added Fyxington, as he threw away his

stump, and very deliberately reached over and helped himself to a fresh

cigar, from a number which Mr. Green had just brought from the bar and

held in his hand—“I’ll trouble you for a little of your fire,”

continued he, taking the cigar from the mouth of Mr. Green, and after

obtaining a light, again placing the borrowed Habana within the lips of

that worthy individual, who sat stupified at the audacity of the

supposed maniac. Fydget gave the conventional grin of thanks peculiar to

such occasions, and with a graceful wave of his hand, resumed the thread

of his lecture, “’Twould be nice for sojers. Stand ’em all of a row, and

whitewash ’em blue or red, according to pattern, as if they were a

fence. The gin’rals might look on to see if it was done according to

Gunter; the cap’ins might flourish the brush, and the corpulars carry

the bucket. Dandies could fix themselves all sorts of streaked and all

sorts of colours. When the parterials is cheap and the making don’t cost

nothing, that’s what I call economy, and coming as near as possible to

first principles. It’s a better way, too, of keeping out the rain, than

my t’other plan of flogging people when they’re young, to make their

hides hard and waterproof. A good licking is a sound first principle for

juveniles, but they’ve got a prejudice agin it.”

“Waiter!” cried Cameo Calliper.

“Sa!”

“Remove the incumbent—expose him to the atmosphere!”

“If you hadn’t said that, I’d wopped him,” observed Griffinhoff.

“Accordin’ to first principles, I’ve as good a right to be here as

anybody,” remarked Fydget, indignantly.

“Cut you’ stick, ’cumbent—take you’sef off, trash!” said the waiter,

keeping at a respectful distance.

“Don’t come near me, Sip,” growled Fydget, doubling his fist—“don’t

come near me, or I’ll develope a first principle and ’lucidate a simple

idea for you—I’ll give you a touch of natur’ without no gloves on—but

I’ll not stay, though I’ve a clear right to do it, unless you are

able—yes, sassy able!—to put me out. If there is anything I scorns

it’s prejudice, and this room’s so full of it and smoke together that I

won’t stay. Your cigar, Sir,” added Fydget, tossing the stump to Mr.

Green and retiring slowly.

“That fellow’s brazen enough to collect militia fines,” said Brown, “and

so thin and bony, that if pasted over with white paper, and rigged

athwart ships, he’d make a pretty good sign for an oyster cellar.”

The rest of the company laughed nervously, as if not perfectly sure that

Fydget was out of hearing.

* * * * *

“The world’s full of it—nothin’ but prejudice. I’m always served the

same way, and though I’ve so much to do planning the world’s good, I

can’t attend to my own business, it not only won’t support me, but it

treats me with despise and unbecoming freedery. Now, I was used sinful

about my universal language, which everybody can understand, which makes

no noise, and which don’t convolve no wear and tear of the tongue. It’s

the patent anti-fatigue-anti-consumption omnibus linguister, to be done

by winking and blinking, and cocking your eye, the way the cat-fishes

make Fourth of July orations. I was going to have it introduced in

Congress, to save the expense of anchovies and more porter; but t’other

day I tried it on a feller in the street; I danced right up to him, and

began canœuvering my daylights to ask him what o’clock it was, and I’m

blow’d if he didn’t swear I was crazy, up fist and stop debate, by

putting it to me right atween the eyes, so that I’ve been pretty well

bung’d up about the peepers ever since, by a feller too who couldn’t

understand a simple idea. That was worse than the kick a feller gave me

in market, because ’cording to first principles I put a bullowney

sassinger into my pocket, and didn’t pay for it. The ’riginal law, which

you may see in children, says when you ain’t got no money, the next best

thing is to grab and run. I did grab and run, but he grabb’d me, and I

had to trot back agin, which always hurts my feelin’s and stops the

march of mind. He wouldn’t hear me ’lucidate the simple idea, and the

way he hauled out the sassinger, and lent me the loan of his foot, was

werry sewere. It was unsatisfactory and discombobberative, and made me

wish I could find out the hurtin’ principle and have it ’radicated.”

Carriages were driving up to the door of a house brilliantly

illuminated, in one of the fashionable streets, and the music which

pealed from within intimated that the merry dance was on foot.

“I’m goin’ in,” said Fydget—“I’m not afeard—if we go on first

principles we ain’t afeard of nothin’, and since they’ve monopolized my

sheer of fun, they can’t do less than give me a shinplaster to go away.

My jacket’s so wet with the rain, if I don’t get dry I’ll be sewed up

and have _hic jacket_ wrote atop of me, which means defuncted of toggery

not imprevious to water. In I go.”

In accordance with this design, he watched his opportunity and slipped

quietly into the gay mansion. Helping himself liberally to refreshments

left in the hall, he looked in upon the dancers.

“Who-o-ip!” shouted Fydget Fyxington, forgetting himself in the

excitement of the scene—“Who-o-ip!” added he, as he danced forward with

prodigious vigour and activity, flourishing the eatables with which his

hands were crammed, as if they were a pair of cymbals—“Whurro-o-o!

plank it down—that’s your sort!—make yourselves merry, gals and

boys—it’s all accordin’ to first principles—whoo-o-o-ya—whoop!—it

takes us!”

Direful was the screaming at this formidable apparition—the fiddles

ceased—the waltzers dropped their panting burdens, and the black band

looked pale and aghast.

“Who-o-o-p! go ahead!—come it strong!” continued Fydget.

But he was again doomed to suffer an ejectment.

“Hustle him out!”

“Give us a ‘shinplaster’ then—them’s my terms.”

It would not do—he was compelled to retire shinplasterless; but it

rained so heavily that, nothing daunted, he marched up the alley-way,

re-entered the house through the garden, and gliding noiselessly into

the cellar, turned a large barrel over which he found there, and getting

into it, went fast asleep “on first principles.”

The company had departed—the servants were assembled in the kitchen

preparatory to retiring for the night, when an unearthly noise

proceeding from the barrel aforesaid struck upon their astonished ears.

It was Fydget snoring, and his hearers, screaming, fled.

Rallying, however, at the top of the stairs, they procured the aid of

Mr. Lynx, who watched over the nocturnal destinies of an unfinished

building in the vicinity, and who, having frequently boasted of his

valour, felt it to be a point of honour to act bravely on this occasion.

The sounds continued, and the “investigating committee,” with Mr. Lynx

as chairman, advanced slowly and with many pauses.

Lynx at last hurriedly thrust his club into the barrel, and started back

to wait the result of the experiment.

“Ouch!” ejaculated a voice from the interior, the word being one not to

be found in the dictionaries, but which, in common parlance, means that

a sensation too acute to be agreeable has been excited.

“Hey!—hello!—come out of that,” said Lynx, as soon as his nerves had

recovered tranquillity. “You are in a bad box whoever you are.”

“Augh!” was the response, “no, I ain’t—I’m in a barrel.”

“No matter,” added Lynx, authoritatively; “getting into another man’s

barrel unbeknownst to him in the night-time, is burglary.”

“That,” said Fydget, putting out his head like a terrapin, at which the

women shrieked and retreated, and Lynx made a demonstration with his

club—“that’s because you ain’t up to first principles—keep your stick

out of my ribs—I’ve a plan, so there won’t be no burglary, which is

this—no man have no more than he can use, and all other men mind their

own business. Then, this ’ere barrel would be mine while I’m in it, and

you’d be asleep—that’s the idea.”

“It’s a logo-fogie!” exclaimed Lynx with horror—“a right down

logo-fogie!”

“Ah!” screamed the servants—“a logo-fogie!—how did it get out?—will

it bite?—can’t you get a gun?”

“Don’t be fools—a logo-fogie is a sort of a man that don’t think as I

do—wicked critters all such sort of people are,” said Lynx. “My lad,

I’m pretty clear you’re a logo-fogie—you talk as if your respect for me

and other venerable institutions was tantamount to very little. You’re a

leveller I see, and wouldn’t mind knocking me down flat as a pancake, if

so be you could run away and get out of this scrape—you’re a ’grarium,

and would cut across the lot like a streak of lightning if you had a

chance.”

“Mr. Lynx,” said the lady of the house from the head of the stairs—she

had heard from one of the affrighted maids that a “logo-fogie” had been

“captivated,” and that it could talk “just like a human”—“Mr. Lynx,

don’t have anything to say to him. Take him out, and hand him over to

the police. I’ll see that you are recompensed for your trouble.”

“Come out, then—you’re a bad chap—you wouldn’t mind voting against our

side at the next election.”

“We don’t want elections, I tell you,” said Fydget, coolly, as he walked

up stairs—“I’ve a plan for doing without elections, and

police-officers, and laws—every man mind his own business, and support

me while I oversee him. I can fix it.”

Having now arrived at the street, Mr. Lynx held him by the collar, and

looked about for a representative of justice to relieve him of his

prize.

“Though I feel as if I was your pa, yet you must be tried for snoozling

in a barrel. Besides, you’ve no respect for functionaries, and you sort

of want to cut a piece out of the common veal by your logo-fogieism in

wishing to ’bolish laws, and policers, and watchmen, when my brother’s

one, and helps to govern the nation when the President, the Mayor, and

the rest of the day-watch has turned in, or are at a tea-party. You’ll

get into prison.”

“We don’t want prisons.”

“Yes we do though—what’s to become of functionaries if there ain’t any

prisons?”

This was rather a puzzling question. Fyxington paused, and finally said:

“Why, I’ve a plan.”

“What is it, then—is it logo-fogie?”

“Yes, it upsets existing institutions,” roared Fyxington, tripping up

Mr. Lynx, and making his escape—the only one of his plans that ever

answered the purpose.

-----

[14] Neal.

XXIII.

DOING A SHERIFF.

A GEORGIA SKETCH.

Many persons in the county of Hall, State of Georgia, recollect a queer

old customer who used to visit the county site regularly on “General

Muster” days and Court Week. His name was Joseph Johnson, but he was

universally known as Uncle Josey. The old man, like many others of that

and the present day, loved his dram, and was apt, when he got among “the

boys” in town, to take more than he could conveniently carry. His

inseparable companion on all such occasions was a black pony, who

rejoiced in the name of “General Jackson,” and whose diminutiveness and

sagacity were alike remarkable.

One day, while court was in session in the little village of

Gainesville, the attention of the Judge and bar was attracted by a

rather unusual noise at the door. Looking towards that aperture, “his

honour” discovered the aforesaid pony and rider deliberately entering

the Hall of Justice. This, owing to the fact that the floor of the court

house was nearly on a level with the ground, was not difficult.

“Mr. Sheriff,” said the Judge, “see who is creating such a disturbance

of this court.”

“It’s only Uncle Josey and Gin’rel Jackson, Judge,” said the intruder,

looking up with a drunken leer, “Jest me an’ the Gin’rel come to see how

you an’ the boys is gettin’ along.”

“Well, Mr. Sheriff,” said the Judge, totally regardless of the interest

manifested in his own and the lawyers’ behalf, by Uncle Josey, “you will

please collect a fine of ten dollars from Uncle Josey and the General,

for contempt of court.”

“Look-a-here, Judge, old feller,” continued Uncle Josey, as he stroked

the “Gin’ral’s” mane, “you don’t mean to say it, now do yer? This child

hain’t had that much money in a coon’s age, and as for the Gin’ral here,

I know he don’t deal in no kind of quine, which he hain’t done, ’cept

fodder and corn, for these many years.”

“Very well, then, Mr. Sheriff,” continued his honour, “in default of the

payment of the fine, you will convey the body of Joseph Johnson to the

county jail, there to be detained for the space of twenty-four hours.”

“Now, Judge, you ain’t in right down good yearnest, is you?—Uncle Josey

hain’t never been put into that there boardin’ house, yet, which he

don’t want to be, neither,” appealed the old man, who was apparently too

drunk to know whether it was a joke or not.

“The sheriff will do his duty, immediately,” was the Judge’s stern

reply, who began to tire of the old man’s drunken insolence.

Accordingly, Uncle Josey and the “Gin’ral” were marched off towards the

county prison, which stood in a retired part of the village. Arriving at

the door, the prisoner was commanded by the sheriff to “light.”

“Look-a-here, Jess, horse-fly, you ain’t agwine to put yer old Uncle

Josey in there, is yer?”

“’Bliged to do it, Uncle Josey,” replied the sheriff, “ef I don’t, the

old man (the judge) will give me _goss_ when I go back. I hate it

powerful, but I must do it.”

“But, Jess, couldn’t you manage to let the old man git away? Thar ain’t

nobody here to see you. Now do, Jess, you know how I _fit_ for you, in

that last run you had ’long er Jim Smith, what like to a beat you for

sheriff, which he would a done it, if it hadn’t been for yer Uncle

Josey’s influence.”

“I know that, Uncle Josey, but thar ain’t no chance. My oath is very

pinted against allowin’ anybody to escape. So you must go in, cos thar

ain’t no other chance.”

“I tell you what it is, Jess, I’m afeared to go in thar. Looks too dark

and dismal.”

“Thar ain’t nothing in thar to hurt you, Uncle Josey, which thar hain’t

been for nigh about six months.”

“Yes, thar is, Jess, you can’t fool me that a-way. I know thar is

somethin’ in thar to ketch the old man.”

“No thar ain’t, I pledge you my honour thar ain’t.”

“Well, Jess, if thar ain’t, you jest go in and see, and show Uncle Josey

that you ain’t afeared.”

“Certainly, I ain’t afeared to go in.”

Saying which the sheriff opened the door, leaving the key in the lock.

“Now, Uncle Josey, what did I tell you? I know’d thar wan’t nothin’ in

thar.”

“May be thar ain’t where you are standin’, but jest le’s see you go up

into that dark place, in the corner.”

“Well, Uncle Josey,” said the unsuspecting sheriff, “I’ll satisfy you

thar ain’t nothin’ thar either,” and he walked towards the “dark

corner.” As he did so, the old man dexterously closed the door and

locked it.

“Hello! thar,” yelled the frightened officer, “none o’ yer tricks, Uncle

Josey; this is carryin’ the joke a cussed sight too fur.”

“Joke! I ain’t a jokin’, Jess; never was more in yearnest in my life.

Thar ain’t nothin’ in thar to hurt you though, that’s one consolation.

Jest hold on a little while, and I’ll send some of the boys down to let

you out.”

And before the “sucked in” sheriff had recovered from his astonishment,

the pony and his master were out of hearing.

Uncle Josey, who was not as drunk as he appeared, stopped at the

grocery, took a drink, again mounted the Gin’ral, and called the keeper

of the grocery to him—at the same time drawing the key of the jail from

his pocket.

“Here, Jeems, take this here key, and ef the old man or any them boys up

thar at the Court-House inquires after Jess Bunion, the sheriff, jest

you give ’em this key and my compliments, and tell ’em Jess is safe.

Ketch ’em takin’ in old Uncle Josey, will yer? Git up, Gin’ral, these

boys here won’t do to trust; so we’ll go into the country, whar people’s

honest if they _is_ poor.”

The sheriff, after an hour’s imprisonment, was released, and severely

reprimanded by the judge, but the sentence of Uncle Josey was never

executed, as he never troubled the Court again, and the judge thought it

useless to imprison him with any hope of its effecting the slightest

reform.

XXIV.

THE MUSCADINE STORY.

It was a bland September morning, in a year that need not be specified,

that the Captain, standing in view of the west door of the Court-House

at Dadeville, perceived the sheriff emerging therefrom, a bundle of

papers in hand, and looking as if he desired to execute some sort of a

_capias_.

The Captain instantly bethought him, that there was an indictment

pending against himself for gaming, and began to collect his energies

for an emergency. The sheriff hailed him at the same moment, and

requested him to “hold on.”

“Stop, Ellis—_right thar_ in your tracks, as the bullet said to the

buck,” Suggs responded; “them dockyments look _venermous_!”

“No use,” said the officer—“sooner or later you must be taken; dog-face

Billy Towns is here, and he’ll go your security.”

“Keep off, I tell you, Ellis; I ain’t safe to-day—the old woman’s

coffee was cold this mornin’, and it fretted me. If you’ve got anything

agin me, keep it ’till Court—I’ll be thar—‘waive all formalities,’ you

know!”

“I will waive nothing,” replied the sheriff, advancing: “I’ll put you

whar I can find you when wanted.”

Suggs drew an old revolving pistol, whereupon the sheriff paused.

“The blood,” shouted the Captain, “of the High Sheriff of Tallapoosy

County be upon his own head. If he crowds on to me, I give fair warnin’

I’ll discharge this _revolten’_ pistol seven several and distinct times,

as nigh into the curl of his forehead, as the natur’ of the case will

admit.”

For a moment the sheriff was intimidated; but recollecting that Captain

Suggs had a religious dread of carrying _loaded_ fire-arms about his

person, although he often sported them uncharged for effect, he briskly

resumed his stride, and the Captain, hurling the “revolter” at his head,

at once fell into a “killing pace” towards the rack where stood his

pony, “Button.”

The sheriff’s horse, by chance, was tied at the same rack, but a wag of

a fellow, catching Suggs’s idea, unhitched the pony, and threw the

bridle over its neck, and held it ready to be mounted; so that the

Captain was in his saddle, and his nag at half speed, ere the sheriff

put his foot in the stirrup.

Here they go! clattering down the street “like an armed troop!” Now the

blanket-coat of the invincible Captain disappears round Luke Davenport’s

corner! The sheriff is hard after him! “Go it, Ellis!” “Go it Suggs!”

“Whoop! whoop! hurrah!” Again the skirts of the blanket-coat become

visible, on the rise by M’Cleudon’s, whisking about the pony’s rump!

“Lay whip, Sheriff; your bay’s lazy!” The old bay gains on Button,

however. But now they turn down the long hill towards Johnson’s Mill

creek. Right sturdily the pony bears his master on, but the bay is

overhauling him fast! They near the creek! He has him! no!—the horse

runs against the pony—falls himself—projects his rider into the

thicket on the right—and knocks the pony and its rider into the stream.

It happened, that, by the concussion or some other cause, the girth of

Captain Suggs’s saddle was broken; so that neither himself nor his

saddle was precisely on Button’s back when they reached the water. It

was no time to stop for trifles, however; so leaving the saddle in the

creek, the Captain bestrode the bare back of his panting animal, and

made the best of his way onward. He knew that the Sheriff would still

follow, and he therefore turned from the road at right angles, skirted

the creek swamp for a mile, and then took a direction by which he would

reach the road again, four or five miles from the scene of his recent

submersion.

The dripping Captain and his reeking steed cut a dolorous figure, as

they traversed the woods. It was rather late in the season to make the

hydropathic treatment they had so lately undergone agreeable; and the

departure of the Captain from Dadeville had been too unexpected and

hurried to allow the slightest opportunity for filling his quart

tickler.

“Wonder,” said he to himself, “if I won’t take a fit afore I git any

more—or else have a whole carryvan of blue-nose monkeys and forky-tail

snakes after me—and so get a sight of the menajerie ’thout payin’ the

fust red cent. Git up, you lazy Injun!”

With the last words, Simon vigorously drove his heels against Button’s

sides, and in a half hour had regained the road.

Scarcely had Captain Suggs trotted a hundred yards, when the sound of

horses’ feet behind him caused him to look back. It was the Sheriff.

“Hello! Sheriff! stop!” said Suggs.

The Sheriff drew up his horse.

“I’ve got a proposition to make to you; you can go home with me, and

_thar_ I can give bond.”

“Very well,” said the Sheriff.

“But hands off till we git thar, and you ride fifty steps ahead of me,

for fear of accidents—that’s the proposition.”

“Agreed!”

“Not so fast,” said Suggs, “thar’s a condition.”

“What’s that?”

“Have you got any liquor along?”

The Sheriff pulled out a black bottle by way of reply.

“Now,” said Captain Suggs, “do you put the bottle on that stump thar,

and ride out from the road fifty yards, and when I git it, take your

position in front.”

These manœuvres were performed with much accuracy, and the parties being

ready, and the Captain one drink ahead:

“For—rard, march!” said Suggs.

In this order, the Sheriff and Captain wended their way, until they

arrived at the crossing of Eagle Creek, a stream having a miry swamp on

each side. As his pony was drinking, an idea popped into the Captain’s

head which was immediately acted upon. He suddenly turned his pony’s

head down stream, and in half a minute was out of sight.

“Come, Button,” said he, “let’s hunt wild-cats a spell!”

The Sheriff, almost as soon as he missed our hero, heard him splashing

down the creek. He plunged into the swamp, with the intention of heading

him, but the mud was so soft that after floundering about a little

while, he gave it up, and returned to the road, cursing as much for the

loss of his black bottle, as of the Captain.

“Hello, Ellis!” shouted Suggs.

“Hello, yourself!”

“Don’t you try that swamp no more; it’ll mire butterflies, in spots!”

“No danger!” was the response.

“And don’t you try to follow me, on that tall horse, down the run of

this creek; if you do, you’ll have both eyes hangin’ on bamboo briers in

goin’ a hundred yards—besides, _moccasin time ain’t over yet_, and

thar’s lots of ’em about these old logs!”

“Take care of yourself, you old thief!” said the irritated officer.

“Once again, Ellis, old fellow!” said Suggs, coaxingly.

“What do you want?”

“Nothin’, only I’m much obleeged to you for this black bottle—_here’s

luck!_—you can charge the price in the next bill of costs you git agin

me.”

The discomfited Sheriff could stand this jeering from the Captain no

longer, so he put spurs to his horse and left.

“Now,” murmured Suggs, “let me depart in peace, for thar’s no chance to

ketch up with me now!—Cuss the hole—and yonder’s a horsin’ log!

“Well, the wicked flee when no man pursueth; wonder what they’d do if

they had that black rascal, Martin Ellis, after ’em, on that infernal

long-legged bay? Durn the luck! thar’s that new saddle that I borrowed

from the Mississippi feller—which he’ll never come back for

it—_that’s_ lost in the mill creek!—jist as good as ten dollars out of

my pocket. Well, it’s no use ’sputin’ with providence—hit _will_

purvide!

“The Grand Jurors of the State of Alabama,” he continued, soliloquizing

in the verbiage of an indictment; “elected, sworn, and charged—_darned

rascals all, with Jim Bulger at the head!_—to inquire for the body of

Tallapoosa County—_durn their hearts! it’s_ MY _body they’re

after!_—upon their oaths present—_confound them!_—that Simon

Suggs—_hem! that’s me, but they might’ve put the ‘Captain’ to it,

though!_—late of said County—_just as if I warn’t one of the fust

settlers, which I was here, afore they had a sign of a Court-House!_

“Well, it’s no use thinkin’ about the lyin’ thing; I’ll have to go

Hadenskeldt, at Court, to get me out’n the suck. Now, _he’s_ a quar one,

ain’t he? Never got him to do any law job for me yet but what I had to

pay him—drot the feller. Anybody would think ’twas as hard to git money

from me as ’tis for a man to draw a headless tenpenny nail out’n an oak

post with his teeth—but that little black-headed lawyer makes a _ten_,

or a _twenty_, come every pop!

“Wonder how fur ’tis down to the bend? This creek makes into the river

about a mile below it, they say. Never mind, thar’s a few drinks of the

_ipsydinxy_ left, and the menajerie won’t open to-day. I judge if my old

woman knowed _whar_ I was goin’, and _who_ I was goin’ to see, she’d

make the yeath shake. But she don’t know; it’s a prinsippel that

Providence has put into the bosom of a man—leastways all sensible

men—to run on and talk a heap afore their wives, to make ’em believe

_they’re turnin’ wrong-side out before ’em_ and yet never tell ’em the

fust word of truth. It’s a wise thing in providence, too. Wonder, if

I’ll ketch that rascal Jim Sparks jewlarkin’ round Betsy, down at old

Bob’s!”

On the morning after the occurrence of the adventure we have related,

Captain Suggs sat in a long trim-built Indian canoe, which was moored to

the north bank of the Tallapoosa river. Near him was Miss Betsy

Cockerell. She sat facing the Captain, on a board laid across the

gunwales of the boat. Miss Betsy was a bouncing girl, plump, firm, and

saucy, with a mischievous rolling eye, and a sharp word for ever at her

tongue’s end. She seemed to be coquetting with the paddle she held in

her hand, and occasionally would strike it on the water, so as to

besprinkle Captain Suggs, much to his annoyance.

“Oh, Captin, you do persuade me to promise you so hard. And Jim Sparks

says you’re married; and if you ain’t you mought ’a been, twenty years

ago; you’re old enough.”—(splash!)

“I say, mind how you throw your water! Jim Sparks is a triflin’ dog—if

I have got a wife, Betsy, she is goin’ fast.”

“Goin’ _whar_?” asked Betsy, striking the water again.

“Confound your paddle! can’t you keep it still? Providence is goin’ to

take her home, Betsy—she’s dwindled away to a shadder, with that cough

and one thing and another. She ain’t long for this world,” he added,

mournfully; “and if you, Betsy, will only make up your mind—the devil

take that paddle!—you’ll turn over the boat, and throw me in the

river!—make up your mind to step into her shoes, it looks like it would

sort o’ reconcile me to lose her”—and here a tear leaked out of each

corner of the Captain’s eyes.

“Oh, Captin,” said Betsy, half shutting one eye, and looking quizzical;

“thar’s so many good-lookin’ young fellers about, I hate to give ’em up.

I _like_ you, Captin, but thar’s Bill Edwards, and Jet Wallis, and Jim

Sparks, and”—

“‘Good lookin’!’ and ‘Jet Wallis’ and ‘Jim Sparks!’ Why Jet’s mouth is

no better than a hole made in the fore part of his head with a

claw-hammer—and as for Jim Sparks, he’s got the face of a terrier dog.”

“Do you count _yourself_ good-lookin’?” asked Betsy, with great

_naïveté_.

“Gal!” replied Suggs, with dignity, “did you ever see me in my uniform?

with my silver oppolots on my shoulder? and my red sash round my waist?

and the sword that Governor Bagby give me, with the gold scabbard a

hangin’ by my side?”

Just at this moment a step was heard, and before the Captain and Betsy

had recovered from the shock of intrusion, Sheriff Ellis stepped into

the boat, and asserted that Suggs “was his prisoner!”

“Treed at last!” said the Captain; “but it’s no use frettin’; the ways

of Providence is mysterious. But whar did you cross, Ellis?”

“Oh, I knew you’d be about the old lick log ’a fishin’ with Betsy. I’ll

turn the kunnoo loose, and Bets will take us across. I crossed at

Hambrick’s ferry, left my horse on t’other side, and come down on you,

like a mink on a settin’ hen. Come! come! it’s time we were off to

Dadeville.”

“Providence is agin me,” sighed the Captain; “I’m pulled up with a short

jerk, in the middle of my kurreer. Well, but,” he continued, musing,

“’spose a feller tries on his own hook—no harm in takin’ all the

chances—I ain’t in jail, _yet_!”

A few yards below the boat landing, there grew out of the bank, an

immense water-oak, projecting over the river, at an angle of about

forty-five. A huge muscadine vine enwrapped the oak in every part, its

branches and tendrils covering it like network. The grapes were now

ripe, and hung over the river

“In bacchanal profusion,—

Purple and gushing.”

Betsy allowed the canoe to drop down slowly, just outside of where the

tips of the lower branches of the tree dallied with the rippling water.

The fruit attracted the Sheriff’s eye and appetite, and reaching out an

arm he laid hold of a branch, and began to “pluck and eat.”

“Drot the grapes!” said Suggs, angrily; “let’s go on!”

“Keep cool,” said the Sheriff, “I’ll fill my pockets first.”

“Be in a hurry, then, and if you _will_ gather the sour things, reach up

and pull down them big bunches, up thar,” pointing to some fine clusters

higher than the Sheriff could reach, as he stood up in the boat, “pull

the vines down to you?”

The Sheriff tried, but the vines resisted his utmost strength; so crying

“steady!” he pulled himself up clear of the boat, and began to try to

establish a footing among the foliage.

At this moment Captain Suggs made no remark orally, but his eye said to

Betsy, as plainly as eye could talk, “hit her a lick back, my gal!”

Silently the paddle went into the water, Betsy leaning back, with lips

compressed, and in a second the canoe shot ten feet out from the tree,

and the Sheriff was left dangling among the vines!

“Stop your senseless jokes!” roared the officer.

“Keep cool, old Tap-my-shoulder! thar’s jist the smallest grain of a

joke in this here, that ever you seed. It’s the coldest sort of

airnest.”

“What shall I do? How shall I get out of this?” asked Ellis, piteously.

“Let all go and drop in the water, and swim out,” was the reply.

“I can’t swim a lick—how deep is it?”

Suggs seemed to ruminate, and then replied:

“From—say—fifteen—yes, _at least_, fifteen—to—about twenty-five

foot. Ugly place!”

“Gracious goodness!” said poor Ellis, “you certainly won’t leave me here

to drown—my strength is failing already.”

“If I don’t,” said the Captain, most emphatically, “I wish I may be

cotched and hanged where you are,” and saying a word to Betsy, they shot

rapidly across the river.

Kissing his companion as he stepped out of the boat, Suggs sought

Button, who was tied to a thicket near by, and mounting, pursued his

homeward way.

“_Never despar_,” he said to himself, as he jogged along, “never despar!

Honesty, a bright watch-out, a hand o’ cards in your fingers and one in

your lap, with a little grain of help from Providence, will always fetch

a man through! Never despar! I’ve been hunted and tracked and dogged

like a cussed wolf, but the Lord has purvided, and my wust _inimy has

tuck a tree_! Git up, Button, you old, flop-eared Injun!”

XXV.

POLLY PEABLOSSOM’S WEDDING.[15]

“My stars! that parson is _powerful_ slow a-coming! I reckon he wa’n’t

so tedious gitting to his own wedding as he is coming here,” said one of

the bridesmaids of Miss Polly Peablossom, as she bit her lips, and

peeped into a small looking-glass for the twentieth time.

“He preaches enough about the shortness of a lifetime,” remarked another

pouting Miss, “and how we ought to improve our opportunities, not to be

creeping along like a snail, when a whole wedding-party is waiting for

him, and the waffles are getting cold, and the chickens burning to a

crisp.”

“Have patience, girls, maybe the man’s lost his spurs and can’t get

along any faster,” was the consolatory appeal of an arch-looking damsel,

as she finished the last of a bunch of grapes.

“Or perhaps his old fox-eared horse has jumped out of the pasture, and

the old gentleman has to take it a-foot,” surmised the fourth

bridesmaid.

The bride used industrious efforts to appear patient and rather

indifferent amid the general restiveness of her aids, and would

occasionally affect extreme merriment; but her shrewd attendants charged

her with being fidgety, and rather more uneasy than she wanted folks to

believe.

“Hello, Floyd!” shouted old Captain Peablossom out of doors to his

copperas-trowsered son, who was entertaining the young beaux of the

neighbourhood with feats of agility in jumping with weights—“Floyd,

throw down them rocks, and put the bridle on old Snip, and ride down the

road and see if you can’t see Parson Gympsey, and tell him hurry along,

we are all waiting for him. He must think weddings are like his

meetings, that can be put off to the ‘Sunday after the fourth Saturday

in next month,’ after the crowd’s all gathered and ready to hear the

preaching. If you don’t meet him, go _clean_ to his house. I ’spect he’s

heard that Bushy Creek Ned’s here with his fiddle, and taken a scare.”

As the night was wearing on, and no parson had come yet to unite the

destinies of George Washington Hodgkins and “the amiable and

accomplished” Miss Polly Peablossom, the former individual intimated to

his _intended_ the propriety of passing off the time by having a dance.

Polly asked her ma, and her ma, after arguing that it was not the

fashion in her _time_, in North Car’lina, to dance before the

_ceremony_, at last consented.

The artist from Bushy Creek was called in, and after much tuning and

adjusting of the screws, he struck up “Money Musk;” and away went the

country-dance, Polly Peablossom at the head, with Thomas Jefferson

Hodgkins as her partner, and George Washington Hodgkins next, with

Polly’s sister, Luvisa, for his partner. Polly danced to every

gentleman, and Thomas Jefferson danced to every lady; then up and down

in the middle and hands all round. Next came George Washington and his

partner, who underwent the same process; “and so on through the whole,”

as Daboll’s Arithmetic says.

The yard was lit up by three or four large light-wood fires, which gave

a picturesque appearance to the groups outside. On one side of the house

was Daniel Newnan Peablossom and a bevy of youngsters, who either could

not or did not desire to get into the dance—probably the former—and

who amused themselves by jumping and wrestling. On the other side a

group of matrons sat under the trees, in chairs, and discoursed of the

mysteries of making butter, curing chickens of the pip and children of

the croup, besides lamenting the misfortunes of some neighbour, or the

indiscretion of some neighbour’s daughter, who had run away and married

a circus rider. A few pensive couples, eschewing the “giddy dance,”

promenaded the yard and admired the moon, or “wondered if all _them_

little stars were worlds like this.” Perhaps they may have sighed

sentimentally at the folly of the musquitoes and bugs which were

attracted round the fires to get their pretty little wings scorched and

lose their precious lives; or they may have talked of “true love,” and

plighted their vows, for aught we know.

Old Captain Peablossom and his pipe, during the while, were the centre

of a circle in front of the house who had gathered around the old man’s

arm-chair to listen to his “twice-told tales” of “hair-breadth ’scapes,”

of “the battles and sieges he had passed;” for you must know the captain

was no “summer soldier and sunshine patriot;” he had burned gunpowder in

defence of his beloved country.

At the especial request of Squire Tompkins, the captain narrated the

perilous adventures of Newnan’s little band among the Seminoles. How

“bold Newnan” and his men lived on alligator flesh and parched corn, and

marched barefooted through saw-palmetto; how they met Bowlegs and his

warriors near Paine’s Prairie, and what fighting was there. The amusing

incident of Bill Cone and the terrapin shell, raised shouts of laughter

among the young brood, who had flocked around to hear of the wars. Bill,

(the “Camden Bard,” peace to his ashes), as the captain familiarly

called him, was sitting one day against the logs of the breastwork,

drinking soup out of a terrapin shell, when a random shot from the enemy

broke the shell and spilt his soup, whereupon he raised his head over

the breastwork and sung out: “Oh, you villain! you couldn’t do that

again if you tried forty times.” Then the captain, after repeated

importunities, laid down his pipe, cleared his throat, and sung:

“We march_ed_ on to our next station,

The Ingens on before did hide,

They shot and killed Bold Newnan’s nigger,

And two _other_ white men by his side.”

The remainder of the epic we have forgotten.

After calling out for a _chunk_ of fire, and relighting his pipe, he

dashed at once over into Alabama, in General Floyd’s army, and fought

the battles of Calebee and Otassee over again in detail. The artillery

from Baldwin county blazed away, and made the little boys aforesaid

think they could hear thunder almost, and the rifles from Putnam made

their patriotic young spirits long to revenge that gallant corps. And

the squire was astonished at the narrow escape his friend had of falling

into the hands of Weatherford and his savages, when he was miraculously

rescued by Timpoochie Barnard, the Utchee chief.

At this stage of affairs, Floyd (_not the general_, but the ambassador)

rode up, with a mysterious look on his countenance. The dancers left off

in the middle of a set, and assembled around the messenger, to hear the

news of the parson. The old ladies crowded up, too, and the captain and

the squire were eager to hear. But Floyd felt the importance of his

situation, and was in no hurry to divest himself of the momentary

dignity.

“Well, as I rode on down to Boggy Gut, I saw——”

“Who cares what the devil you saw?” exclaimed the impatient captain;

“tell us if the parson is coming, first, and you may take all night to

tell the balance, if you like, afterwards.”

“I saw—” continued Floyd pertinaciously.

“Well, my dear, what did you see?” asked Mrs. Peablossom.

“I saw that some one had _tooken_ away some of the rails on the cross

way, or they had washed away or somehow—”

“Did anybody ever hear the like?” said the captain.

“And so I got down,” continued Floyd, “and hunted some more and fixed

over the boggy place.”

Here Polly laid her hand on his arm and requested, with a beseeching

look, to know if the parson was on the way.

“I’ll tell you all about it presently, Polly. And when I got to the run

of the creek, then—”

“Oh, the devil!” ejaculated Captain Peablossom, “stalled again!”

“Be still, honey, let the child tell it his own way—he always would

have his way, you know, since we had to humour him so when he had the

measles,” interposed the old lady.

Daniel Newnan Peablossom, at this juncture, facetiously lay down on the

ground, with the root of an old oak for his pillow, and called out

yawningly to his pa, to “wake him when brother Floyd had crossed over

the _run_ of the creek and arrived safely at the parson’s.” This caused

loud laughter.

Floyd simply noticed it by observing to his brother, “Yes, you think

you’re _mighty smart_ before all these folks!” and resumed his tedious

route to Parson Gympsey’s, with as little prospect of reaching the end

of his story as ever.

Mrs. Peablossom tried to coax him to “_jist_” say if the parson was

coming or not. Polly begged him, and all the bridesmaids implored. But

Floyd “went on his way rejoicing.”

“When I came to the Piney-flat,” he continued, “old Snip _seed_

something white over in the bay-gall, and shy’d _clean_ out o’ the road,

and—” where he would have stopped, would be hard to say, if the

impatient captain had not interfered.

That gentleman, with a peculiar glint of the eye, remarked, “Well,

there’s one way I can bring him to a showing,” as he took a large horn

from between the logs, and rung a “wood-note wild” that set a pack of

hounds to yelping. A few more notes as loud as those that issued from

“Roland’s horn at Roncesvalles” was sufficient invitation to every

hound, foist, and “cut of low degree,” that followed the guests, to join

in the chorus. The captain was a man of good lungs, and “the way he

_did_ blow was the way,” as Squire Tomkins afterwards very happily

described it; and as there were in the canine choir some thirty voices

of every key, the music may be imagined better than described. Miss

Tabitha Tidwell, the first bridesmaid, put her hands to her ears and

cried out:

“My stars! we shall all git _blow’d_ away!”

The desired effect of abbreviating the messenger’s story was produced,

as that prolix personage in copperas pants, was seen to take Polly

aside, and whisper something in her ear.

“Oh, Floyd, you are joking; you oughtn’t to serve me so. An’t you

joking, _bud_?” asked Polly, with a look that seemed to beg he would say

yes.

“It’s true as preaching,” he replied, “the cake’s all dough!”

Polly whispered something to her mother, who threw up her hands, and

exclaimed, “Oh, my!” and then whispered the secret to some other lady,

and away it went. Such whispering and throwing up of hands and eyes, is

rarely seen at a quaker meeting. Consternation was in every face. Poor

Polly was a very personification of “patience on a monument, smiling

green and yellow melancholy.”

The captain, discovering that something was the matter, drove off the

dogs, and inquired what had happened to cause such confusion. “What the

devil’s the matter now?” he said. “You all look as _down in the mouth_

as we did on the _Santaffee_ (St. Fe), when the quartermaster said the

provisions had all give out. What’s the matter—won’t somebody tell me?

Old ’oman, has the dogs got into the kitchen and eat up all the supper,

or what else has come to pass? out with it!”

“Ah, old man, bad news!” said the wife with a sigh.

“Well, what is it? you are _all_ getting as bad as Floyd, _terryfying_ a

fellow to death.”

“Parson Gympsey was digging a new horse trough and cut his leg to the

bone with the foot-adze, and can’t come—Oh, dear!”

“I wish he had taken a fancy to ’a done it a week ago, so we _mout_ ’a

got another parson, or, as long as no other time would suit but to-day,

I wish he had cut his derned eternal head off!”

“Oh, my! husband,” exclaimed Mrs. Peablossom. Bushy Creek Ned, standing

in the piazza with his fiddle, struck up the old tune of

“We’ll dance all night, ’till broad daylight,

And go home with the _gals_ in the morning.”

Ned’s hint caused a movement towards the dancing room, among the young

people, when the captain, as if waking from a revery, exclaimed in a

loud voice: “Oh, the devil! what are we all thinking of? why here’s

Squire Tompkins, _he can perform the ceremony_. If a man can’t marry

folks, what’s the use of being squire at all?”

Manna did not come in better time to the children of Israel in the

wilderness, than did this discovery of the worthy captain to the company

assembled. It was as vivifying as a shower of rain on corn that is about

to shoot and tassel, especially to G. W. Hodgkins and his lady-love.

Squire Tompkins was a newly elected magistrate, and somewhat diffident

of his abilities in this untried department. He expressed a hint of the

sort, which the captain only noticed with the exclamation, “hoot toot!”

Mrs. Peablossom insinuated to her husband, that in her _day_ the

“_quality_,” or better sort of people in North Ca’lina, had a prejudice

_agin_ being married by a magistrate; to which the old gentleman

replied: “None of your nonsense, old lady, none of your Duplin county

aristocracy about here, now. The better sort of people, I think you say!

Now, you know North Ca’lina ain’t the best State in the Union, nohow,

and Duplin’s the poorest county in the State. Better sort of people, is

it? _Quality_, eh! Who the devil’s better than we are? An’t we honest?

An’t we raised our children decent, and learned them how to read, write

and cipher? An’t I _fou’t_ under Newnan and Floyd for the country? Why,

darn it! we are the _very best_ sort of people. Stuff! nonsense! The

wedding shall go on; Polly shall have a husband.” Mrs. P.’s eyes lit

up—her cheek flashed, as she heard “the old North State” spoken of so

disparagingly; but she was a woman of good sense, and reserved the

castigation for a future curtain lecture.

Things were soon arranged for the wedding; and as the old wooden clock

on the mantel-piece struck one, the bridal party were duly arranged on

the floor, and the crowd gathered round, eager to observe every twinkle

of the bridegroom’s eye, and every blush of the blooming bride.

The bridesmaids and their male attendants were arranged in couples, as

in a cotillion, to form a hollow square, in the centre of which were the

squire and betrothing parties. Each of the attendants bore a candle;

Miss Tabitha held hers in a long brass candlestick, which had belonged

to Polly’s grandmother, in shape and length somewhat resembling

“Cleopatra’s needle;” Miss Luvisa bore a flat tin one; the third

attendant bore such an article as is usually suspended on a nail against

the wall, and the fourth had a curiously devised something cut out of

wood with a pocket-knife. For want of a further supply of candlesticks,

the male attendants held naked candles in their hands. Polly was dressed

in white, and wore a bay flower with its green leaves in her hair, and

the whisper went round: “Now _don’t_ she look pretty?” George Washington

Hodgkins rejoiced in a white satin stock, and a vest and pantaloons of

orange colour; the vest was straight-collared, like a continental

officer’s in the revolution, and had eagle buttons on it. They were a

fine-looking couple.

When everything was ready, a pause ensued, and all eyes were turned on

the Squire, who seemed to be undergoing a mental agony, such as Fourth

of July orators feel when they forget their speeches, or a boy at an

exhibition, when he has to be prompted from behind the scenes. The truth

was, Squire Tompkins was a man of forms, but had always taken them from

form-books, and never trusted his memory. On this occasion he had no

“Georgia Justice,” or any other book from which to read the

marriage-ceremony, and was at a loss how to proceed. He thought over

everything he had ever learned “by heart,” even to

“Thirty days hath the month of September,

The same may be said of June, April, November;”

but all in vain; he could recollect nothing that suited such an

occasion. A suppressed titter all over the room admonished him that he

must proceed with something, and in the agony of desperation, he began:

“Know all men by these presents, that I—” here he paused and looked up

to the ceiling, while an audible voice in a corner of the room was heard

to say:

“He’s drawing up a _deed_ to a tract of land,” and they all laughed.

“In the name of God, Amen!”—he began a second time, only to hear

another voice in a loud whisper say:

“He’s making his _will_ now. I thought he couldn’t live long, he looks

so powerful bad.”

“Now I lay me down to sleep,

I pray the Lord—”

was the next essay, when some erudite gentleman remarked:

“He is not dead, but sleepeth.”

“O yes! O yes!” continued the Squire.

One voice replied: “Oh no! oh no! don’t let’s.” Another whispered, “No

ball!” Some person out of doors, sung out, “Come into court!” and the

laughter was general.

The bridesmaids spilt the tallow from their candles all over the floor,

in the vain attempt to look serious. One of them had a red mark on her

lip for a month afterwards, where she had bit it. The bridegroom put his

hands in his pockets, and took them out again; the bride looked as if

she would faint—and so did the Squire!

But the Squire was an indefatigable man, and kept trying. His next

effort was:

“To all and singular, the sher—”

“Let’s run! he’s going to _level_ on us,” said two or three at once.

Here a gleam of light flashed across the face of Squire Tompkins. That

dignitary looked around all at once, with as much satisfaction as

Archimedes could have felt, when he discovered the method of

ascertaining the specific gravity of bodies. In a grave and dignified

manner, he said:

“Mr. Hodgkins, hold up your right hand.”

George Washington obeyed, and held up his hand.

“Miss Polly, hold up yours.”

Polly, in her confusion held up the left hand.

“The other hand, Miss Peablossom.”

And the Squire proceeded, in a loud and composed manner, to qualify

them:

“You and each of you do solemnly swear, before the present company, that

you will perform toward each other, all and singular the functions of a

husband or wife—as the case may be—to the best of your knowledge and

ability, so help you God!”

“Good as wheat!” said Captain Peablossom. “Polly, my gal, come and kiss

your old father; I never felt so happy since the day I was discharged

from the army, and set out homewards to see your mother.”

-----

[15] By the Hon. J. B. Lamar.

XXVI.

THE MOTHER AND HER CHILD.

Whence comes the gibberish which is almost invariably used by mothers

and nurses, to infants? Take for example the following, which will

answer the twofold purpose of illustrating my idea, and of exhibiting

one of the peculiarities of the age.

A few days ago, I called to spend an hour in the afternoon with Mr.

Slang, whose wife is the mother of a child about eight months old.

While I was there, the child in the nurse’s arms, in an adjoining room

began to cry.

“You Rose,” said Mrs. Slang, addressing a female slave, “quiet that

child!”

Rose walked it, and sang to it; but it did not hush.

“You Rose! if you do not quiet that child, I lay I make you.”

“I is tried, ma’am,” said Rose, “an’ he wouldn’t get hushed.”

(_Child cries louder._)

“Fetch him here to me, you good for nothing hussy you. What’s the matter

with him?” reaching out her arms to receive him.

“I dun know ma’am.”

“Nhei—nhun—nho—nha’am!” (_mocking and grinning at Rose._)

As Rose delivered the child, she gave visible signs of dodging, just as

the child left her arms; and, that she might not be disappointed, Mrs.

Slang gave her a box: in which there seemed to be no anger mixed at all;

and which Rose received _as a matter of course_, without even changing

countenance under it.

“Da den!” said Mrs. Slang, “come elong e muddy (mother.) Did nassy

Yosey, (Rose,) pague muddy thweety chilluns? (children)” pressing the

child to her bosom, and rocking it backward and forward tenderly.

“Muddins will whippy ole nassy Yosey. Ah! you old uggy Yosey,”

(_knocking at Rose playfully_.) “Da den; muddy did wippy bad Yosey.”

(_Child continues crying._)

“Why what upon earth ails the child? Rose, you’ve hurt this child,

somehow or other!”

“No m’m, ’cla’ I didn’t—I was jist sitt’n down dar in the rock’n chair

long side o’ Miss Nancy’s bureau, an’ want doin’ nothin’ ’tall to him,

jis playin’ wid him, and he jis begin to cry heself, when nobody wa’n’t

doin’ nothin’ ’tall to him, and nobody wa’nt in dar nuther sept jis me

and him, and I was—”

“Nhing—nhing—nhing—and I expect you hit his head against the bureau.”

“Let Muddy see where ole bad Yosey knocky heady ’gin de bureaus. Muddy

_will_ see,” taking off the child’s cap, and finding nothing.

(_Child cries on._)

“Muddy’s baby was hongry. Dat was what ails muddy’s darling, th’sweety

ones. Was cho hongry, an’ nobody would givy litty darling any sings

’tall for eaty?” (_loosing her frock bosom._) “No, nobody would gim

t’shweety ones any sings fo’ eat ’tall”—(_offers the breast to the

child, who rejects it, rolls over, kicks, and screams worse than ever_.)

“Hush, you little brat! I believe it’s nothing in the world but

crossness. Hush! (_shaking it_,) hush, I tell you!”

(_Child cries to the ne plus ultra._)

“Why surely a pin must stick the child. Yes, was e bad pin did ticky

chilluns. Let muddy see where de uggy pin did ticky dear prettous

creter,” (_examining_.) “Why no, it isn’t a pin. Why what can be the

matter with the child! It must have the cholic surely. Rose, go bring me

the paragoric off the mantle-piece. Yes, muddy’s baby did hab e tolic.

Dat was what did ail muddy’s prettous darly baby.”

(_Pressing it to her bosom and rocking it. Child cries on._)

Rose brought the paragoric, handed it, dodged, and got her expectations

realized as before.

“Now go bring me the sugar, and some water.”

Rose brought them, and delivered both without the customary reward; for

at that instant, the child being laid perfectly still on the lap,

hushed.

The paragoric was administered, and the child received it with only a

whimper now and then. As soon as it received the medicine, the mother

raised it up and it began to cry.

“Why Lord help my soul, what’s the matter with the child! what have you

done to him, you little hussy?”

(_Rising and walking towards Rose._)

“’Cla’, Missis, I eint done nothin’ ’tall—was jis sittin’ down da by

Miss Nancy’s bu—”

“You lie, you slut!” (_hitting her a passing slap_,) “I know you’ve hurt

him. Hush, my baby,” (_singing the Coquet_,) “don’t you cry, your

sweetheart will come by’m’by; da, de dum dum dum day, da de dum diddle

dum dum day.”

(_Child cries on._)

“Lord help my soul and body, what can be the matter with my baby!”

(_tears coming in her own eyes._) “Something’s the matter with it; I

know it is,” (_laying the child on her lap, and feeling its arms, to see

whether it flinched at the touch of any particular part_.) But the child

cried less while she was feeling it than before.

“Yes, dat was it; wanted litty arms yubb’d. Mud will yub its sweet

little arms.”

(_Child begins again._)

“What upon earth can make my baby cry so!” rising and walking to the

window.

(_Stops at the window, and the child hushes._)

“Yes, dat was it: did want to look out ’e windys. See the pretty

chickens. O-o-o-h! Look, at, the beauty, rooster! Yonder’s old aunt

Betty! See old aunt Betty, pickin’ up chips. Yes, ole aunt Betty,

pickin’ up chip fo’ bake bicky (biscuit) fo’ good chilluns. Good aunt

Betty fo’ make bicky fo’ sweet baby’s supper!”

(_Child begins again._)

“Hoo-o-o! see de windy!” (_knocking on the window. Child screams._)

“You Rose! what have you done to this child? You little hussy you, if

you don’t tell me how you hurt him, I’ll whip you as long as I can find

you!”

“Missis I ’cla’ I never done noth’n’ ’tall to him. I was jis sett’n’

down da by Miss Nancy’s bu—”

“If you say ‘_Miss Nancy’s bureau_’ to me again, I’ll stuff Miss Nancy’s

bureau down your throat, you little lying slut! I’m just as sure you’ve

hurt him, as if I’d seen you. How did you hurt him?”

Here Rose was reduced to a _non plus_; for, upon the peril of having a

bureau stuffed down her throat, she dare not repeat the oft-told tale,

and she knew no other. She therefore stood mute.

“Julia,” said Mr. Slang, “bring the child to me, and let me see if I can

discover the cause of his crying.”

Mr. Slang took the child, and commenced a careful examination of it. He

removed its cap, and beginning at the crown of its head, he extended the

search slowly and cautiously downward, accompanying the eye with the

touch of the finger. He had not proceeded far in this way, before he

discovered in the right ear of the child, a small feather, the cause, of

course, of all its wailing. The cause removed, the child soon changed

its tears to smiles, greatly to the delight of all, and to none more

than to Rose.

XXVII.

PELEG W. PONDER;

OR, THE POLITICIAN WITHOUT A SIDE.[16]

It is a curious thing—an unpleasant thing—a very embarrassing sort of

thing—but the truth must be told—if not at all times, at least

sometimes; and truth now compels the declaration, that Peleg W. Ponder,

whose character is here pourtrayed, let him travel in any way, cannot

arrive at a conclusion. He never had one of his own. He scarcely knows a

conclusion, even if he should chance to see one belonging to other

people. And, as for reaching a result, he would never be able to do it,

if he could stretch like a giraffe. Results are beyond his compass. And

his misfortune is, perhaps, hereditary, his mother’s name having been

Mrs. Perplexity Ponder, whose earthly career came to an end while she

was in dubitation as to which of the various physicians of the place

should be called in. If there had been only one doctor in the town,

Perplexity Ponder might have been saved. But there were many—and what

could Perplexity Ponder do in such a case?

Ponder’s father was run over by a waggon, as he stood debating with

himself, in the middle of the road, whether he should escape forward or

retreat backward. There were two methods of extrication, and between

them both old Ponder became a victim. How then could their worthy son,

Peleg, be expected to arrive at a conclusion? He never does.

Yet, for one’s general comfort and particular happiness, there does not

appear to be any faculty more desirable than the power of “making up the

mind.” Right or wrong, it saves a deal of wear and tear; and it prevents

an infinite variety of trouble. Commend us to the individual who closes

upon propositions like a nutcracker—whose promptness of will has a

sledge-hammer way with it, and hits nails continually on the head.

Genius may be brilliant—talent commanding; but what is genius, or what

is talent, if it lack that which we may call the clinching faculty—if

it hesitates, veers, and flutters—suffers opportunity to pass, and

stumbles at occasion? To reason well is much, no doubt; but reason loses

the race, if it sits in meditation on the fence when competition rushes

by.

Under the best of circumstances, something must be left to hazard. There

is a chance in all things. No man can so calculate odds in the affairs

of life as to insure a certainty. The screws and linchpins necessary to

our purpose have not the inflexibility of a fate; yet they must be

trusted at some degree of risk. Our candle may be put out by a puff of

wind on the stairs, let it be sheltered ever so carefully. Betsy is a

good cook, yet beefsteaks have been productive of strangulation. Does it

then follow from this, that we are never to go to bed, except in the

dark, and to abstain from breaking our fast until dinner is announced?

One may pause and reflect too much. There must be action, conclusion,

result, or we are a failure, to all intents and purposes—a

self-confessed failure—defunct from the beginning. And such was the

case with Peleg W. Ponder, who never arrived at a conclusion, or

contrived to reach a result. Peleg is always “stumped”—he “don’t know

what to think”—he “can’t tell what to say”—an unfinished gentleman,

with a mind like a dusty garret, full, as it were, of ricketty

furniture, yet nothing serviceable—broken-backed chairs—three-legged

tables—pitchers without a handle—cracked decanters and fractured

looking-glasses—that museum of mutilations, in which housewifery

rejoices, under the vague, but never-realized hope, that these things

may eventually “come in play.” Peleg’s opinions lie about the workshop

of his brain, in every stage of progress but the last—chips, sticks,

and saw-dust, enough but no article ready to send home.

Should you meet Peleg in the street, with “Good morning, Peleg—how do

you find yourself to-day?”

“Well—I don’t know exactly—I’m pretty—no, not very—pray, how do you

do, yourself?”

Now, if a man does not know exactly, or nearly, how he is, after being

up for several hours, and having had abundant time to investigate the

circumstances of his case, it is useless to propound questions of

opinion to such an individual. It is useless to attempt it with Peleg.

“How do you do,” puzzles him—he is fearful of being too rash, and of

making a reply which might not be fully justified by after-reflection.

His head may be about to ache, and he has other suspicious feelings.

“People are always asking me how I do, and more than half the time I

can’t tell—there’s a good many different sorts of ways of feeling

betwixt and between ‘Very sick, I thank you,’ and ‘Half dead, I’m

obliged to you;’ and people won’t stop to hear you explain the matter.

They want to know right smack, when you don’t know right smack yourself.

Sometimes you feel things a-coming, and just after, you feel things

a-going. And nobody’s exactly prime all the while. I ain’t, anyhow—I’m

kinder so just now, and I’m sorter t’other way just after.—Then, some

people tell you that you look very well, when you don’t feel very

well—how then?”

At table, Peleg is not exactly sure what he will take; and sits looking

slowly up and down the board, deliberating what he would like, until the

rest of the company have finished their repast, there being often

nothing left which suits Peleg’s hesitating appetite.

Peleg has never married—not that he is averse to the connubial

state—on the contrary, he has a large share of the susceptibilities,

and is always partially in love. But female beauty is so various. At one

time, Peleg is inclined to believe that perfection lies in queenly

dignity—the majesty of an empress fills his dreams; and he looks down

with disdain upon little people. He calls them “squabs,” in derogation.

But anon, in a more domestic mood, he thinks of fireside happiness and

quiet bliss, declining from the epic poetry of loveliness, to the

household wife, who might be disposed to bring him his slippers, and to

darn the hole in his elbow. When in the tragic vein, he fancies a

brunette; and when the sunshine is on his soul, blue eyes are at a

premium. Should woman possess the lightness of a sylph, or should her

charms be of the more solid architecture? Ought her countenance to beam

in smiles, or will habitual pensiveness be the more interesting? Is

sparkling brilliancy to be preferred to gentle sweetness?

“If there wasn’t so many of them, I shouldn’t be so bothered,” said

Peleg; “or, if they all looked alike, a man couldn’t help himself. But

yesterday, I wanted this one—to-day, I want that one; and to-morrow,

I’ll want t’other one; and how can I tell, if I should get this, or

that, or t’other, that it wouldn’t soon be somebody else that I really

wanted? That’s the difficulty. It always happens so with me. When the

lady’s most courted, and thinks I ought to speak out, then I begin to be

skeered, for fear I’ve made a mistake, and have been thinking I loved

her, when I didn’t. May be it’s not the right one—may be she won’t

suit—may be I might do better—may be I had better not venture at all.

I wish there wasn’t so many ‘may-bes’ about everything, especially in

such affairs. I’ve got at least a dozen unfinished courtships on hand

already.”

But all this happened a long time ago; and Peleg has gradually lost

sight of his fancy for making an addition to his household. Not that he

has concluded, even yet, to remain a bachelor. He would be alarmed at

the bare mention of such an idea. He could not consent to be shelved in

that decisive manner. But he has subsided from active “looking around”

in pursuit of his object, into that calm, irresponsible submissiveness,

characteristic of the somewhat elderly bachelor, which waits until she

may chance to present herself spontaneously, and “come along” of her own

accord. “Some day—some day,” says Peleg; “it will happen some day or

other. What’s the use of being in a hurry?”

Peleg W. Ponder’s great object is now ambition. His personal affairs are

somewhat embarrassed by his lack of enterprize; and he hankers greatly

for an office. But which side to join? Ay, there’s the rub! Who will

purvey the loaf and fish? For whom shall Peleg shout?

Behold him, as he puzzles over the returns of the state elections,

labouring in vain to satisfy his mind as to the result in the

presidential contest. Stupefied by figures—perplexed by contradictory

statements—bothered by the general hurrah; what can Peleg do?

“Who’s going to win? That’s all I want to know,” exclaims the vexed

Peleg; “I don’t want to waste my time a blowing out for the wrong

person, and never get a thank’e. What’s the use of that? There’s

Simpkins—says I, Simpkins, says I, which is the party that can’t be

beat? And Simpkins turns up his nose and tells me every fool knows

that—it’s his side—so I hurrah for Simpkins’s side as hard as I can.

But then comes Timpkins—Timpkins’s side is t’other side from Simpkins’s

side, and Timpkins offers to bet me three levies that his side is the

side that can’t be beat. Hurrah! says I, for Timpkins’s side!—and then

I can’t tell which side.

“As for the newspapers, that’s worse still. They not only crow all

round, but they cipher it out so clear, that both sides must win, if

there’s any truth in the ciphering-book; which there isn’t about

election times. What’s to be done? I’ve tried going to all the

meetings—I’ve hurraed for everybody—I’ve been in all the processions,

and I sit a little while every evening in all sorts of head-quarters.

I’ve got one kind of documents in one pocket, and t’other kind of

documents in t’other pocket; and as I go home at night, I sing one sort

of song as loud as I can bawl half of the way, and try another sort of

song the rest of the way, just to split the difference and show my

impartiality. If I only had two votes—a couple of ’em—how nice it

would be.

“But the best thing that can be done now, I guess, as my character is

established both ways, is to turn in quietly till the row is all over.

Nobody will miss me when they are so busy; and afterward, when we know

all about it, just look for Peleg W. Ponder as he comes down the street,

shaking people by the hand, and saying how we have used them up. I can’t

say so now, or I would—for I am not perfectly sure yet which is ‘we,’

or which is ‘them.’ Time enough when the election is over.”

It will thus be seen that Ponder is a remarkable person. Peter Schlemihl

lost his shadow, and became memorably unhappy in consequence; but what

was his misfortune when compared with that of the man who has no side?

What are shadows if weighed against sides? And Peleg is almost afraid

that he never will be able to get a side, so unlucky has he been

heretofore. He begins to dread that both sides may be defeated; and

then, let us ask, what is to become of him? Must he stand aside?

-----

[16] By J. C. Neal.

END OF VOL. II.

L O N D O N :

Printed by Schulze and Co., 13, Poland Street.

TRANSCRIBER NOTES

Printer errors have been corrected where obvious errors occur.

Author spellings have been maintained and differences corrected to

majority author use.

Inconsistencies in punctuation have been maintained.

The Preface from Volume I was included in Volumes II & III.

A cover was created for this eBook.

[The end of _Traits of American Humour, Vol. II of III_, by Thomas

Chandler Halliburton, ed.]